He frowned, his dark lips now gray. “And if you failed?”
“With Crispin out of the way no one would have implicated you.”
“And do you think this is justice?”
“What do you fear?” Her chin rose arrogantly. “You are a knight. You have faced worse.”
“No. I have never faced worse than this. You do not know…you cannot begin to know…”
She shrugged. “It does not matter. Crispin is alive and Gaston is dead with good reason. Leave it at that.”
“I am very much afraid,” said Crispin, “that we cannot.”
She laughed. “Do not be a fool. What are your plans? To arrest me? Who will believe you? Look at you. A rusted knight; a shabby banner of days past. You are no one. You are less than no one. You told me you were once a gong farmer. What is lower than that? No one will ever believe you.”
Stephen slumped his shoulders. “I do.”
Rosamunde’s gaze snap toward him. “Stephen!”
“I once thought the world of you. How innocent you were. Now look at you. I was silent when you became Gaston’s lover. If I were a better brother…” He shivered. “Instead, I said nothing and fled to France to secure your marriage, hoping you would come to your senses and end it. But this. This is no game of courtly love. This is murder. For the love of Christ, Rosamunde! You killed two men!”
Crispin grasped her arm. She looked down at his chapped fingers curled tight over her sleeve.
No anger, no pity. Nothing lay in the hollow of his chest. He knew it would not last but he savored the numbness so he could do his duty. “It is time to pay, my dear. Perhaps there will be mercy. Perhaps the law will judge you kindly. But do not doubt that I will convey you myself to Newgate.”
Her eyes were quizzical and subtly changed the longer she appraised him. She turned toward him and placed her free hand on his chest. “Crispin. You cannot mean what you say. Consider it. Consider us.”
He leaned forward and kissed her gravely on the lips. She raised her hand to cup his face, and they held that pose for several moments before he drew away.
“I do have my regrets over killing you, my dear,” said Crispin. “For you were dear to me once. Surely your reward will be greater in Heaven.”
Her face paled in the recognition of her own words and she suddenly struck out at him, beating him on the chest with her clenched hands.
He drew back his fist and punched her jaw. Her head snapped back and she slumped. He caught her before she hit the floor.
“I am taking her to Newgate. Do you interfere with me?” he asked Stephen.
Stephen’s gaze met Crispin’s. “She is my blood.” He slowly withdrew his sword.
Crispin laid her on the bed. “I expected no less.” He looked at Stephen’s blade and scowled. “I do not have a sword.”
Stephen nodded and sheathed his weapon. He pulled his dagger instead and Crispin did likewise.
The room fell silent except for their labored breathing. Neither wanted to lift his blade first until a pall of resignation bleached Stephen’s features. With a roar through grit teeth, he fell toward Crispin. Crispin raised his arm in defense.
Stephen made no half-hearted feints. He stabbed toward Crispin, and Crispin deftly dodged each attempt. They both fought in earnest, maneuvering their way around the room, casting furniture aside.
Stephen’s blade struck upward and the tip caught Crispin on the cheek. He felt the sharp sting only momentarily, but it was enough to spur him on. He tossed the blade into his left hand and landed several blows with his fist into Stephen face with his right. Stephen wobbled and Crispin maneuvered him into a corner. He pinned Stephen’s dagger arm to the wall and pressed his own blade to Stephen’s throat.
Stephen looked up miserably at Crispin. “Do it,” he rasped. “Take me out of this world. Oh Jesu! I should have let you hang me!”
Crispin clamped his lips together and breathed furiously through his nose. All at once, he lowered the blade. “For Jesus’ sake, let us make an end to this.”
“How can I let you arrest her? She cannot bear it.”
“Two men have died. Are they to suffer no retribution?” He looked past Stephen at Jenkyn’s stark face. The servant had pressed himself against the wall trying to avoid the fighting. “What say you, Jenkyn? She almost made a murderer of you and then would have let you hang. You have a say.”
“I was loyal all my life to this house. Why would she do that to me?”
Crispin gestured with the knife. “She is a selfish creature, Jenkyn. Best concern yourself-”
Jenkyn’s eyes widened. “Look out, Master Crispin!”
Instinct moved his hand before he turned. His dagger sunk deep with that familiar sensation of slicing flesh and oozing blood. When his head swiveled enough to spy the edge of her disarrayed hair he let go of the blade with a horrified gasp. With a silent rend of his own heart he knew it was too late.
Rosamunde pulled the dagger from her belly at once but it only served to blot her gown in a growing irregular stain. The dagger clattered to the floor.
Rosamunde looked up at Crispin and smiled. Blood tinged her lips. She let her own jeweled dagger fall from her hand. “Justice?” she whispered before crumpling to his feet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Crispin sat in the dark. He barred the door even from Jack, who gave up trying to enter hours ago. Gilbert and Eleanor tried to coax him free of his lodgings. Even Martin Kemp made an effort, but none could budge him.
Today, especially today, he would not leave the haven of his shabby room. Though the day ended, he could not bring himself to light a candle. He did not feel deserving of even that singular illumination while they buried her.
The knock on the door surprised him. He hoped they had all given up by now.
At first he didn’t answer. But the gentle voice on the other side of the oak roused him to his feet. He stood at the door and stared at the bolt. Finally, he threw it back and returned to his chair and sat.
The door slowly creaked open and Father Timothy peered in. He blinked into the darkness. “Do you invite me in, Crispin?”
Crispin did not reply. He only sighed, but Timothy acknowledged it and entered, closing the door behind him. “Surely we can light a candle?”
“It is dark where she is.” His voice cracked. He realized he had not actually spoken in some days.
“We do not know that,” Timothy said and sat on the chest.
“It is dark in the grave.”
“Stephen St Albans sent word after the burial. She is safe at her ancestral estates.”
Crispin absorbed this and nodded. He didn’t know whether the news pleased him or not.
“May we light a candle, then?”
Crispin said nothing. Timothy proceeded to the hearth and lit a straw. Cupping the glowing sprig in his hand, he brought it to the table and lit the tallow candle in its dish on the table.
The priest’s young face immediately sprang into view. He smiled. “There now. A little flame does no harm.”
“What have I done?”
Timothy eyed Crispin with sympathy. “It was an accident. The justices declared it so. It spared her an arrest and a trial, after all. And the punishment. It is justice, when all is said and done.”
“Yes, but whose?”
“She was a murderer, one who killed more than once for vain reasons. It was a mercy this way.”
“Then why is it I feel like a murderer?”
“Not so. In the end, she forgave you.”
He raised his face to the priest, gazing into his sympathetic eyes. They glittered in the candlelight. “Were you there?”
“Yes. I gave her absolution. She lasted two days, as I’m certain you know. And as a faithful Christian, she forgave you for all of it. Without reservation.”
Crispin stared at the candle a long time and finally raised his hand to his face. He wiped his dry features before dropping his hand away. “I am glad.”